The Winter of Our Discontent
by mallornmoon
Summary: Post- RoTK. It is winter in Minas Tirith, and Legolas has to fight to see what truly matters from behind the veil of his Sea-longing. Disclaimer- I do not own any of these characters. No pairings (except Arwen and Aragorn) but interpret it however you want!


**A/N: So this is my first LOTR fanfic, set six months or so after the end of RoTK :) hope you like it, and leave a review if you want!**

He's always had trouble locating his sense of purpose. A sense of purpose perhaps lost somewhere in the myriad tangled years of his life, years of constant strength and youth and vigour, all things that he still fears to call eternal. For only his heart has aged; only in there do the centuries truly make their pain felt. Yet today Minas Tirith is beautiful, glistening beneath the pearlwater light of a winter sun, its blue-veined marble buildings shrouded with a thin layer of snow. Legolas tries to take heart in that glacial perfection, in the way the whip-sharp winds muffle the ominous cries of western gulls. He swings on his cloak out of habit rather than cold and sets off across the parapet to find Gimli. The dwarf sits perched upon an outcrop of flat grey stone, a pale plume of smoke floating from his pipe and a matted wolfskin tucked around his shoulders. They exchange no greetings but for a slight tilt of the head. After witnessing the near end of the world and a thousand perilous battles besides, such paltry things are not worth engaging in. Gimli commences that morning's discussion with a cough and a sigh.

'Cold today, isn't it?' Legolas wishes he could agree. But instead, he revels in the prickling chill, enjoying the feel of a cool breeze against his skin that is not swallowed up by leaves first. _It would be like this out at sea,_ he thinks idly. _Salt-scented winds and fresh, free air-_ Legolas shakes his head as though to dislodge the notion. From trees he came, amongst trees he has lived his whole life, and that is how it must stay if things are to remain uncomplicated.

'First proper day of winter, I hear,' he murmurs. Gimli coughs again, a harsh laugh bursting from his lips.

'This is no true winter,' he says between gasps, abandoning his pipe on the wall. Legolas rejoices inwardly; he will never understand mortals and their ill-judged obsession with smoking. 'Back in Erebor, the snows rise three feet high in early November, and it stays that way until the February thaw.' His voice grows hoarse with longing. 'We have a winter feast at every turn of the moon, with roast salt pork and the finest oak-matured mead, all kept warm by the great hearth in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. I suppose it's very different in your forest?' Winter in Mirkwood- Greenwood now, he remembers with a jolt of relief- is by no means a hard time. It means a changing of seasons, a chance to start anew, all past wrongdoings swept away by the blizzards. For Legolas, winter is memories of roaring fires and voices lifted in song, being able to see the sky without the hindrance of ten thousand leaves, the deep green sprigs of holly in his father's crown.

'It is indeed.' They fall back into companionable silence, watching as the sun meanders its way across the alabaster spread of Osgiliath and kisses Gondor's gates. A bell rings out high up in the city, welcoming the new dawn with its cacophonous cries. Gimli heaves a weary sigh.

'Nigh upon six months we have lingered in this city, my friend. It will be time to take our leave of the king and return home before long.' The king. Estel, Strider, Aragorn, and now Elessar of the House of Telcontar, king of Gondor and Arnor. He remains their loyal friend, humbled by the hardships of war- but now there is an unacknowledged rift between them. A rift that Legolas doubts either Gimli or Aragorn has noticed yet. Back in Mirkwood, he hovered between obedient Sindarin prince and wild Silvan warrior, never sure which suited him best. Even at Elrond's council Legolas could feel his father's influence, hanging over him like a dark shadow of disapproval. But in the Fellowship he was simply Legolas. There was no need for titles, not when their quest carried the fate of Middle-Earth along with it, and he soon found himself too occupied in the various perils they faced to ponder it overmuch. Yet things have changed now. Aragorn is king, and from that alone Legolas is unsure of where he stands. Should he demand a place upon the royal council, as his position befits? In truth, there is nothing he would dislike more. But that may be the only way to stand equal to Aragorn once more. Shedding his doubts for now, Legolas rises from the wall and forces a smile.

'I look forward to that day already.' The lie is cold and sharp as it falls from his lips.

They break their fast in the royal apartments at the invitation of King Aragorn and Queen Arwen, with a spread of heavy Gondorian breads and meats that Legolas is still becoming accustomed to. A sparrow squawks outside the window. Legolas' heart leaps, and he has to remind himself that it is not a gull, that he can still combat this most irrational of fears. Gimli notices, of course. He is sharper-eyed and more observant than most give him credit for, and he tracks the waxing and waning of Legolas' moods with unnerving accuracy. But on this occasion he can only be grateful. To spoil Aragorn's happiness with his petty troubles would be beyond selfish. And Aragorn is happy- almost blindingly so, a smile never far from his face these days. The mantle of kingship sits upon him far better than he had expected it to, and as long as he has Arwen by his side nothing can daunt his light heart. Their love has survived the test of time and a perilous war to boot, overcoming obstactles that claimed countless others' lives along the way. They deserve a fairytale ending. _But_ , thinks Legolas mulishly, crumbling bread between his long fingers, _we overcame much in our time together as well, we Three Hunters._ He pushes away the sudden bout of jealousy as quickly as it came. Legolas knows he is far from such things, from finding such serenity and peace. For he was not made to stay in one place, to love gently and warmly- but to travel, to open his soul to the world, to love nature with fierceness and wild passion. _Oh, but I thought I was_. The Legolas that existed before the Fellowship was perfectly content beneath beech and oak, to devote his life to the forest. _I loved those trees, once. Yet now I desire nothing more than to leave them forever._

Watery winter sunlight streams through the window as they talk and eat. A strange gathering, this- two elves, with a history of confused and clouded loyalties; a man, made wise by his unnatural long years and now a king; then the dwarf, whose quiet stubbornness and unburdened moral code keeps the rest of them grounded. Aragorn in particular is at one with the bright winter morning. Silver has crept into his hair over these past months, and it suits his new composed maturity, falling in a wave of intermingling light and dark down to the shoulders of his silken tunic. He wears no crown here, not amongst friends, on what should be the dawn of an untroubled day. Yet the concern in his eyes is anything but that.

'Something is amiss,' he says, pinning Legolas beneath his forthright gaze. 'You are troubled, my friend.' Legolas' mind whirs as he fumbles for a lie. As it has been so many times before, Gimli comes to his rescue in the end.

'Nothing to trouble yourself with,' he grunts from behind a mug of dark ale. 'Only that winter in your royal city is close and cold, old friend, and these harsh winds bring with them a renewed longing to venture back to our homes.' _Prettily put,_ thinks Legolas, but Aragorn does not break their staring match.

'That may be so,' he mutters. Arwen lays two fingers on his tight arm, her smile soft and soothing. She was bewitchingly beautiful as the Evenstar, and as Queen of Gondor she holds a new, gentle power.

'Do not worry yourself unduly, my lord,' she says. 'Our friends are merely wearied from their long ordeal, as are we all. There will be ample time for visits and meetings in the future.' Legolas shoots her a small smile of gratitude. They understand one another, these two elves sundered from home and hearth, understand the intoxicating pull of the mortal world and its fleeting beauty. But the sea, the salt in the air, the crash and splash of steel waves on golden sands- Arwen will never understand that. She turned her back on Valinor for love, yet Legolas' every thought strains towards it these days. It is not the silver shores themselves that he is entranced by, beautiful as they are said to be. No, he desires only roaring freedom, liberty from a world that demands so much- pounding in his ears and a fierce song in his heart. Gimli's hand on his forearm drags him back to reality.

'The morning grows old,' he says, dusting breadcrumbs from his beard. 'I do not wish to spend its entirety indoors. If we may be dismissed, my lord?'

'Of course, old friend,' replies Aragorn with the slightest of smiles. But L does not miss the flash of panic in his eyes as they leave.

The sun has risen some way more now, and golden light floods the courtyard of the White Tree. Legolas hums an elven-song as he and Gimli make their way past pale marble colonnades and tall alabaster pillars.

'I know that tune,' mutters the dwarf. He folds his hands across the wide leather strip of his belt, beetle-black eyes gazing out over Gondor. 'They sang it back in Rivendell, before we departed on the Quest, though it was in your elven-tongue.'

'Not in mine,' explains Legolas patiently, twisting a strand of pale hair with idle fingers. He is never still these days, always needing something to occupy his hands and his mind so that darker demons cannot creep in. 'In Noldorin, perhaps, though it is similar enough to Sindarin-'

'Ach, I will never understand how your pretty poem-speech works,' says Gimli with a snort. 'But out with it. What is the name of your song?' Legolas thinks, and realises- and decides that there is little point in lying these days.

'The song of Nimrodel,' he says softly, eyes sliding shut. 'And what awaited her beyond the Sea, that which parted her from her lover Amroth forever.'

'The Sea, then,' grunts Gimli. 'I might have known.' Legolas' eyes snap open. His hands have strayed back to his hair, and they pluck at one of the braids, weaving and unweaving the honey strands with frantic speed.

'Aragorn knows.' The words are punched out of him before he can even register their meaning. Yet the look that crosses Gimli's face is oddly rueful, a crooked smile that holds too many meanings for him to untangle and decipher. 'I was too obvious, too distracted-'

'Of course he knows, lad.' The dwarf's voice is gentle, low and croaking, tempered with tenderness. 'The Sea-longing is common enough, and a man as long-lived as Aragorn can surely recognise its signs by now.' Legolas thinks of the carefree boy Aragorn once was. He dwelt in the fair court of Imladris once, free of any burdens or troubles, unaware of the destiny that awaited him not so far away. Elrond was as his father, Elrohir and Elladan brothers close enough to be bound to him by blood. Yes, he understands elves well enough. But this- this is different.

'I am a wood-elf,' Legolas mutters. 'Wood-elves are not supposed to have such feelings, such irreversible desires.' He is lying, he knows, denying his Sindarin side with such vehemence that it may just fade away if he wills it hard enough. Gimli cannot understand this. For his roots lie in solid stone, are made to be firm and reliable, and Legolas will never be able to achieve his forthright frankness. _I thought I was implacable as the greatest oak, trustworthy and steadfast and loyal. But I have been uprooted somehow._ His gaze goes out to the mighty Anduin, longest and proudest of rivers within Middle Earth. Legolas forces himself to remember the Forest River. To recall the mingling of berries and honeysuckle upon his tongue, the fresh earthy green smell all around, the rushing hum of water and the low melody of elven-voices in his ears. _Remember_ , he tells himself, but the Sea is cold and close, and it roars so loudly that the song of the forest is silenced.

That night it becomes bad again. Legolas bolts every door and window, fearing the gulls, who are more courageous in the dark. But that only serves to trap him, alone with his thoughts in this cold white box of a room. So he flings them all wide open again. Now the wind pours in, breathing a beautiful chill across his tortured skin. And with it comes the waves. He can hear them, teasing at the edges of his mind in blue-white billows that roll by again and again and again and again; he smells salt, no, _tastes_ it, sweeps his hands through coarse sand and is freed by its glorious roughness- Legolas' eyes fly open. A dream. Nothing more. Aragorn was kind enough to lend him apartments with a balcony garden, so it is to the balcony that Legolas goes, bare feet sliding along cold floors. It is far, far worse out here. Yet somehow, better also, he thinks. The wind is louder, so is the Sea- but almost too loud for thoughts. His hand weaves through a curl of wandering ivy and grasps it tightly. When Legolas first came to Minas Tirith, this place was neat and orderly, with trimmed rosebushes and obedient potted plants that were removed and swapped at each turn of the moon. He has let nature reclaim it. Now, a cluster of pale young trees shadow the marble floor, which is more often dusted with soil than not, ivy spilling from their branches in long green spools. Flowers grow together in wild clumps of colour, brightening the small space. It is dense, dim, green-smelling- it is Legolas' only sanctuary in this so very stony city.

Now he leans back against the trunk of his favourite tree, letting its soft song overwhelm him. Everything is leaves and green and trees and brown earth and voices- calling, calling. Everything is blue and white and cold and sea spray and voices- calling, calling. Legolas does not know which way to turn. _Choose an everything,_ his soul screams out, _choose a path so that you might be at peace._ And then it all becomes too much. Too much to decide, to have his own fate held between such tremulous, terrified hands. Legolas dresses with shaking speed and dashes from the room in a whirl of silver sorrow. Guards on the night patrol stare curiously as he passes, a dark and determined creature of the moon, something cold and desperate burning in his stormloud-grey eyes.

It is not far from the city gates to the banks of the Anduin. Legolas follows its meandering path until he comes to a copse of slender birch trees, their branches stripped of leaves and white with winter's kiss. The river is so wide here that if he squints, the other side cannot be seen. He breathes in salt air and sighs. This sea-longing- it is more like a drug than anything else, one that burns and torments and tortures, but leaves him begging for more each time. _There are no leaves to shield you here,_ a voice in Legolas' head whispers. He takes a step closer to the shore. So silent... and yet not, each sift of the water a soothing rhythm for his frantic heart. Legolas does not wants silence. He wants terrible, towering waves, a storm to match his raging confusion, a burst of energy that will wash away this restless itch within him. It is true; there are no leaves to shield him here, so Legolas does not flinch for a moment when icy water laps over his feet. Closer, further. Deeper. He needs the cold, the steel bite, the stolen spark of life that this excursion affords him. Legolas closes his eyes to what is right, letting the current sweep him away- and that is when the hand drops down upon his shoulder.

'The Prince of Eryn Lasgalen should not wander so idly at night without guards,' says Aragorn- of course it is Aragorn- reminding him of his duty and position.

'Neither should the King of Gondor and Arnor,' retorts Legolas. Only then does he realise that his hair is wind-tousled and unkempt, clothes crumpled, and his eyes must glow like some feral wilderness wolf. The cold over his feet is much more painful now.

'The king may walk freely within his own kingdom.' Aragorn sweeps his forthright gaze over Legolas, taking in everything and absorbing it in his quiet way. 'But that is besides the point. Legolas, _mellon-nin,_ what are you doing here?' There it is- his first and perhaps only chance to confide in Aragorn. _I am weak, old friend. Forgive me._

'I wished to look upon the stars.' It is a feeble excuse, Legolas knows, and Aragorn clearly does as well. He shakes his head with a rueful smile.

'It pains me to learn that you trust me so little, even now.' Legolas opens his mouth to protest, but the king is adamant in his purpose. 'I am no ignorant fool, Legolas, nor am I blind. I know what the White Lady's riddle spoke of.'

'Then you know that there is no hope left for me,' says Legolas despairingly. 'That I am a traitor to my land and people for wanting to leave them, and I do not deserve this; it is too much for me, Aragorn, too much.' Too Sindarin to stay, yet too Silvan to sail. His is a twisted dilemma.

'You are no traitor.' Aragorn's voice is soft and comforting, though Legolas must strain to hear it over the roar of waves that are not there. 'To sail now would only be your right, and nature's will.' He takes Legolas' archery-calloused hands between his own sword-roughened ones. The warmth radiating from them is so good that Legolas feels the prick of tears behind his eyelids. 'But I do not wish for you to go.' Legolas looks up slowly, uncertainly. 'You have thousands of years in which to decide, to journey to every corner of Middle-Earth before you must make up your mind. I have only a silver of time amongst all that.'

 _'Mellon-nin-'_

'Stay for me, Legolas. For a little while longer.' He stares deep into Aragorn's hopeful eyes, and knows that this promise is hard to break but harder to make.

'For you, then.'

They return to Minas Tirith just as the moon is beginning to slip beneath the horizon, admitting the frailest finger of dawn. Aragorn stops them both outside Legolas' chambers. He wears his king's mask, though there is a touch of concern beneath it.

'Swear not to do anything rash.'

'I swear.' But later, when Aragorn has gone, Legolas reflects that he no longer knows the meaning of rash. Does it mean to face twenty orcs single-handedly, weaponless, or is it to dive to the bottom of the sea and find its secrets? Is it succumbing to the red rush of battle fever, or giving into fate's cruel hands? _I can no longer be sure._ He has failed everyone- his people, his kingdom, his father, his friends. None of them know it yet- _but they will, they will. Once I tell them the true shameful truth of this storm inside me._

Three days later, he prepares to leave again, though this time at daybreak and with Gimli's comforting presence beside him. They agree that Arod has borne their combined weight for long enough, so Legolas rides the white horse alone whilst Gimli struggles along behind with a new steed.

'Give my regards to Thranduil and Dain,' calls down Aragorn from the upper wall. He stands beside Arwen, King and Queen waving off their two dearest friends, a show of solidarity and serenity.

'Of course, lad. Farewell!' shouts back Gimli.

'Farewell,' murmurs Legolas in his own tongue. He has not the strength to yell, nor the force of will, and Arwen's elven-ears will hear his words all the same. And off they go.

Gimli fills the journey with talk of Erebor, of his excitement at seeing his homeland again, his various dwarven friends and their exploits throughout these past few months.

'I will ride through Esgaroth first, perhaps, to view the works of their craftsmen. But then to the Lonely Mountain- ah, Erebor, Legolas! Never such a kingdom has existed before.' _It did until the dragon came,_ muses Legolas, but he remains silent. 'Uncut gems in raw rock, shining everywhere like the stars that are so beloved of you elves. You say those lights are beautiful, but they are mere trifles compared to the work of our finest smiths.' As time wears on, Legolas begins to feel as though Gimli is prompting him, urging him to speak of his own hopes and anticipations.

'The leaves are always beautiful at this time of year,' he says quietly. 'They have all fallen, yes, but they burn red and gold and yellow, brightening the floors of our forest. My father oft sends for the brightest to be woven into his autumn crown-' Realisation chokes off his words. The king will be more disappointed than anyone at L's affliction...

'Lad?' Gimli jerks him back to the present. 'What is it?' Snow falls with sudden, ice-perfect timing, chilling Legolas' uncovered face and hands as he rides. Somehow it washes away a curtain of doubt in his mind.

'I am no hobbit, Gimli, to be content both at home and upon the road.' The words tumble out of Legolas in a panicked rush. 'I cannot be safe within myself whilst there is so much around me- so many trees and grasses and roots, all pulling, all the time-' He breaks off again. Gimli is silent as he contemplates his answer. For a moment there is no sound but the _clop_ of hooves on a cracked, bare road, accompanied by a wind that shrieks and keens high in the sky.

'You are blessed with eternal life, my friend. There is time enough for both, I think- time enough to stay at home and remember where your heart lies, then time later to to travel and see the world for yourself.'

'For yourself,' repeats Legolas bitterly. 'You will come with me?'

'Aye, if that is what you wish.' They are both lying now. They pretend there is nothing wrong, that Legolas will remain steady enough in soul and mind to see the world freely, that these past months of misery have been nothing more than a dream. 'You will come with me to see Erebor-' Gimli's voice leaps and cracks- '-and yes, I shall lay eyes upon your forest, if you will it to be so.'

'I do,' whispers Legolas in return. 'The Greenwood... it is so fair, Gimli, so bright and light, so full of laughter and joy. I wish- I wish you might feel it as I once did-'

'You will feel it again, I promise. That is where your loyalties lie.'

So as the day wears on, so dissipates Legolas' terror, and he sends a silent message of thanks to Eru for the eloquence of a certain dwarf. He lies down that night and expects his sleep to be untroubled for the first time in months.

(but instead his dreams are haunted by the eternal roll of waves and the screeching cry of gulls, and a constant wind that sings _alone alone alone_ )

 **more to follow if people want?**


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